


he is Icarus

by incantatums



Series: there is an art to murder and love [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Bottom!Edward, Canon Divergence, I love using similes if you couldn't tell, M/M, Metaphors, Nygmobblepot, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Similes, Smut, Top!Oswald, sort of.....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incantatums/pseuds/incantatums
Summary: The Gods could never have made Edward – it was the Devil. The Devil created Edward out of fire and souls that had burned for a thousand years, brought life to this man that brings Oswald to his knees with just a glance his way.





	he is Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not have wrote this smutty little thing whilst in the ED at the hospital last night. Oops!
> 
> This is a canon divergence after Edward and Oswald escaped the Court of Owls together. I've based it in my head in a few years after then, after they've had a chat about how they can't keep ripping at each other because neither will win, so instead they fuck and leave the other alone when it comes to city levelling criminal shit. Sound plan tbh.

Oswald can hardly believe they're here. Together. No guns and no threats – it's just the two of them in Oswald's bed, skin sliding and lips barely touching. Almost breaking this unsaid rule but not really.

They've always been good at finding the loopholes when rules surround them, threaten to break their backs under the weight of them.

Oswald's eyes dart up and down Edward's body, mapping out his freckles and small scars, wondering where they came from, who gave them to him, but that's another unsaid rule that Oswald can't find in him to slip around when Edward is pushing up against him as though he's not sure if he wants _more more more_ or if he's trying to throw Oswald off to find a knife to stick in his heart, and Oswald can't fucking breathe with how Edward is a vice around him, the wet slide making his toes clench and his fingers dig a little too hard into his bed sheets and they tear but he doesn't care right now.

Right now, Edward is underneath him. Right now, Edward is begging Oswald for him to fuck him harder. Right now, Edward is looking up at Oswald almost as if he actually loves him.

A twitch to the right with Oswald's hips earns him a choked out whimper that dissolves into breathy begs for _more, faster, harder_ , and Edward's writhing underneath him like he's burning up from the inside out and, God, Oswald is burning too; he can feel it in the pit of his stomach, somewhere deep inside of him, an inferno blinding him to everything except the mole on Edward's collarbone, the sweat already building up at his temples, his lips red and wet and forming words Oswald can't hear but knows that Edward wants more.

Oswald tilts Edward's hips up slightly, tilting his own a little further down and there it is.

“Right there! Oh, _fuck_ , oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckohfuckohfuck,” Edward's words blend together, his normally colourful vernacular ripped down to five words: _oh fuck Oswald please close_.

Edward is staring at him like he's witnessed an act of God, his eyes glazed over and there are tears starting to pool in his dark lashes. His pupils have overtaken his irises, no trace of russet left, as though Edward's body wants to see as much of Oswald as it possibly can.

He looks like he should be a sacred art piece. Perhaps a marble statue, but then again, maybe not – no stone could ever match Edward's skin. It could never live up to the flush that has crawled up his chest, tinged his cheeks with a pink that almost makes him look innocent which would make Oswald laugh in normal circumstances, but right now Edward is holding them chest to chest, fingers digging into Oswald's back and some fingernails are scratching at him and he is mouthing at Oswald's neck, leaving marks that are definitely above the collar line as though he's making him _his_.

The Gods could never have made Edward – it was the Devil. The Devil created Edward out of fire and souls that had burned for a thousand years, brought life to this man that brings Oswald to his knees with just a glance his way. Oswald is terrified by how he would burn his own empire to the ground, burn _himself_ , if Edward even hinted that was what he wanted from Oswald.

And here he is: burning himself up from flying too close to Edward. He is Icarus, too arrogant and filled with his own grandeur to realise that Edward was not just a star to fly by, instead he is the Sun and Oswald can hardly breathe as he presses his forehead to Edward's, his nose grazing across the man beneath him, his own lips trembling from how close Edward is and how he has engulfed Oswald in a wildfire of sweat, skin, lust, _love_ , and Oswald let's himself give in to Edward's growing cries as he slows his pace and pushes deeper, harder, and fuck, it's stifling in this room with his lover.

Edward pulls Oswald even closer, his lips grazing Oswald's ear, and he whispers, “please let me come. Let me come for you, Oswald,” and Oswald builds up his tempo again until his knee starts to complain, the muscles surrounding it are starting to scream at him but Edward is so close, and he is so close; they're so close and so together that Oswald questions if soulmates are real and – and –

Edward throws his head into the pillow below him, back arching and his body is pushing into Oswald, a wail escaping his lips, eyes squeezed shut as though he is blinded by them too. He's caught Oswald in a vice and he pushes in one, two, three times before the fire in Oswald explodes and his arms give way, collapsing onto Edward and still thrusting until the both of them twitch and let out choked whimpers from any movement.

Edward is gasping quietly, taking in huge lungfuls of air like he had been drowning for hours before he could keep his head above water. He's breathing it in as though he can't believe that it's real, that he can taste it on his own tongue, and Oswald is shivering on top of him, hands roaming the planes of Edward's skin and kissing anywhere he can reach because he burns and drowns around Edward, too.

The cool air around them leaves their sweat sticky and they know they have to separate sooner or later, but for now they subconsciously decide that that can be later, and for now they can hold each other for just a bit longer.

They can go back to hating each other after the sun rises in Gotham again.

In the morning, Oswald will dress alone and wonder what The Riddler's next act will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought! I've never written a..... sex thing before. It's always been ambiguous or cut short when clothes are about to come off... so of course I skipped all of that and went straight into the diddly doo ;)
> 
> But yeah, let me know what you thought. Constructive criticism helps me become a better writer! (And some mind blowing compliments won't hurt much either?)
> 
> (I also may or may not have a plan to make this into a series. Like pre-series, slow burn, 60 chapters of tearing at each other's business and then 2 chapters of... maybe? And then one-shots of them in bed canoodling and all that jazz. I guess we'll see...)


End file.
